


I Hold You Like A Weapon

by winterkill



Series: Cop!Brienne AU [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Cop!Brienne, F/M, Flagrant disregard for police procedures and policies, I think this is just the plot of Zootopia minus the animals, Mediocre white guy!Hyle Hunt, Oral Sex, Petty Criminal!Jaime, Sexual Tension, Smut, and porn (also DEFINITELY without the animals)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: “Stop!” Brienne calls out, “Hands behind your head and turn around.” She reaches for her gun but doesn’t remove it from the holster.The man laces his fingers together in his golden hair and turns to face her. Horribly, Brienne’s first thought ishe’s beautiful.“You’re about to point that the wrong way."
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Cop!Brienne AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715098
Comments: 75
Kudos: 296





	I Hold You Like A Weapon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildlingoftarth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildlingoftarth/gifts).



> I wanted to challenge myself to write a modern AU one-shot where Jaime and Brienne bang after only knowing one another for a few hours. I also wanted to do it in less than 5k.
> 
> ...That didn't happen, but the rest of it did!
> 
> Title is a line from "Masseduction" by St. Vincent.

Jaime peers around the edge of the doorframe he’s hiding behind and tries to make an educated guess about how fucked he is.

_Marginally fucked?_

The room he’s hiding in is small and littered with disused medical equipment--a rusty hospital bed with a clearly moldy mattress, something that looks like a chair where a person might suffer a lobotomy, an array of bottles and used needles. _Thank the gods I got a tetanus shot._ The room might be more accidentally lethal than the people he’s hiding from.

There’s a gunshot that sounds too close for comfort, accompanied by some muffled yelling. If they find him, it won’t matter that Jaime is the son of Tywin Lannister--his father won’t pay a ransom, and there’s no guarantee the men aren’t connected to Tywin by some _very_ illegal six degrees of separation. Lannister Enterprises _looked_ above board, but, even in exile, Jaime knows his father’s ties to Westeros’s criminal underworld run deep. 

Not that the apple fell _terribly_ far from the tree--Jaime was just bad at it, or so Cersei used to say. _You’re just a pathetic hustler,_ she often said.

There’s a second gunshot, _much_ closer, and Jaime winces. For all his semi-dubious enterprises, he’s never shot a firearm outside a gun range. He escaped capture the first time but _just_ by the skin of his teeth. He clutches the duffle bag stuffed with what he assumes are unmarked bills. Cersei would call him stupid for grabbing it when Hoat’s goonies looked away.

Cersei might be right--Jaime can’t use the money if he’s dead. _This_ is why he sticks to small-time things. 

If the Bloody Mummers catch him, he’ll learn firsthand why people call Vargo Hoat the Crippler. Hoat and his lackeys would kill him, certainly, for his accidental witnessing of their drug running, but they’d maim him first. Jaime scans the murky darkness of his hideout. _No secondary exits. Exponentially fucked, then._

If Jaime’s doomed to die, he’d rather meet his end trying to _avoid_ meeting the Stranger, rather than cowering in fear.

So, he stands up and runs.

* * *

When she was a little girl, running barefoot on Tarth’s beaches, Brienne told her father she wanted to be a police officer. Her father encouraged her the same way he encouraged all her dreams, even the period where she wanted to be a knight like Galladon of Morne. 

It was one of Brienne’s _less_ practical aspirations, along with wanting to be a unicorn and a dolphin.

Ever stubborn, she succeeded--the scorn she faced as a child for her stature and appearance became her fuel, and, in some cases, even a boon. She wasn’t beautiful, but she could run and tackle a perp and never tired carrying her gear on patrol. Nevertheless, her girlhood dreams of helping people and having an impact on society weren’t quite reality once she joined the force.

Brienne spends most of her first six months at the King’s Landing Police Department writing traffic citations and helping elderly women find their lost cats.

 _It’s not about glory,_ she tells herself every morning, _small acts matter, too._

When she _finally_ goes on patrol, they pair her up with Brynden Tully. Rumor has it he’s been on the force so long that he was born in a patrol car. They call him the Blackfish because of the old family crest of House Tully. He’s gruff and stubborn, but also kind, and he _never_ criticizes her simply for being a woman. His instruction is pragmatic and no-nonsense, and after six months Brienne starts to feel like an _actual_ cop.

Today, fellow rookie Jon Snow flops into his desk chair and the precinct and says, “We’ve had _three_ calls about severed limbs in the last two weeks. An elderly woman in Flea Bottom found a foot in a dumpster.”

Jon tosses her a case file, and Brienne opens it; inside is a picture of said foot. Past Brienne might have winced at the gore of it, but she’s used to such things now. “I wonder where the rest of him is,” she muses.

“Probably in multiple locations,” Jon replies.

Neither of them laugh, but some of their colleagues might.

“The informants in Flea Bottom say there’s more drug activity,” Brienne taps her pin against her chin, “It’s all shade of the evening, too. People overdosing having blue lips gives it away.”

Brienne sighs. An increase in the random discovery of severed limbs and shade of the evening in the seedier parts of King’s Landing can only mean one gang has returned from Essos--the Bloody Mummers.

Jon knows it, too, because he sighs and says, “We’ll _all_ be on patrol looking for these assholes every shift.”

She has to agree.

* * *

_Somehow_ , Jaime makes it out of the abandoned building without being filled with bullet holes.

He spends the night in the least seedy hotel he can find that takes cash. He uses his own money and touches _nothing_ from the duffle bag. They don’t ask his name, which is fucking perfect. The fake names he comes up with are _never_ good. His clothes are dirty as hell, so he washes his shirt in the sink and hopes they’ll dry by morning. It half works; Jaime knew better than to try and do the same with his jeans.

_I’ve worn worse._

The pizza he orders is greasy and oddly delicious as long as he doesn’t dwell on the _certain_ health and safety violations of the restaurant. Nevertheless, Jaime eats half the pie in his boxers while watching a TV that’s probably older than he is.

The next morning, Jaime has a slightly damp t-shirt and _no_ fucking idea what to do with himself. He stuffs his jacket atop the money in the duffle bag. Switching to a new bag entirely would be best, but he’ll make do with what he has. Going back to his apartment is suicide, especially since one of Hoat’s men yelled “We’ll get you, Lannister, and skin you alive!” 

If only Hoat yelled it in that famed lisp of his; Jaime would’ve stopped running to laugh at him.

 _Maybe_ it’s better that didn’t happen.

Nevertheless, he isn’t feeling so good about the long-term possibility of staying alive. Jaime spends the morning lurking in alleyways trying to formulate an exit strategy. Under normal circumstances, he’s pretty good at those--like exiting a bar with some rigged gambling winnings, or pawning off something counterfeit.

None of those things involve Essosi drug lords with _lots_ of guns.

By noon, he’s contemplating going to the police station and turning himself in. If he confesses to a dozen misdemeanors they _might_ lock him in a holding cell long enough for the Bloody Mummers to forget his existence.

Fallen Lannister scion with golden hair and a reputation. _Yeah, nevermind; I’m fucked._

Jaime leans against the stoop of a boarded up shop and tries to think his way out of this. Cersei often told him he was the stupidest of the three of them. It’s been a long, _long_ time since he saw his sister, but the words are as clear in his mind as if she spoke them yesterday.

“Hey! There he is!” The voice can’t be more than half a block away.

“Well, _fuck.”_

Jaime runs again.

* * *

Flea Bottom is the _worst_ beat in the entirety of King’s Landing. They drew lots for it at roll call at the beginning of the shift, and Brienne never had good luck.

Brynden doesn’t seem to mind. Then again, Brienne’s never heard him complain, which means he won’t hear her complain, either. Besides, if Brienne complains about her luck, she’d never stop bitching.

“Keep a wary eye, Tarth,” Brynden says to her at a stop light, “You never know what you might miss if you look without seeing.”

The light turns green, and Brienne’s about to respond, “Yes, sir,” when there’s a loud _thunk,_ and a body rolls across the hood of their car. The person--a man, Brienne realizes, stumbles out of the crosswalk and keeps running. There’s a gunshot, and Brienne kind of despises how much of the people on the sidewalk don’t react. When Brynden turns on the lights and the siren, _then_ everyone scatters.

_They’re more wary of us than a firing gun._

“Tarth, you’ll have more luck on foot. We can’t fit the car through the alleys down here. I’ll track the shooter.”

“Yes, sir,” Brienne answers, unbuckling her seatbelt and opening the door. She’s younger and has more endurance than her partner. Swimming and running track as a girl hadn’t made her any more feminine, but it did wonders for her stamina.

The runner is easy to spot--his golden hair glints in the shafts of morning sun in the alley. He’s fast, but she’ll catch up if he keeps that pace. A dumpster, turned sideways in the alley, halts him. Brienne catches up just in time to see the man throw the bag he’d been carrying into the dumpster.

“Stop!” Brienne calls out, “Hands behind your head and turn around.” She reaches for her gun but doesn’t remove it from the holster..

The man laces his fingers together in his golden hair and turns to face her. Horribly, Brienne’s first thought is _he’s beautiful._

“You’re about to point that the wrong way,” he smirks in a way a man in his position _definitely_ shouldn’t, carefree amusement evident in the upward turn of his lips. 

“Maybe,” Brienne answers, “maybe not.”

He laughs, and that’s probably _also_ not something a man in his position should be doing, “What’s chasing me is _definitely_ worse than me.”

“How do I know you’re not running from the scene of a crime?”

There’s a pause where he absolutely looks Brienne up and down three times. She knows that appraisal, and feels her traitorous cheeks burn in shame. When someone looks at her like that, she’s a girl of thirteen again and wants to go cry in her room.

“You’re...a woman?’

“Obviously.”

More laughter, “Is it, though? With your stature, from the back, one might mistake--”

 _“Shut up._ You’re at a severe disadvantage here, so you should stop joking and tell me why you’re running.”

Brienne really, _really_ hates that her body camera is recording this conversation.

 _“Fine,”_ his expression shifts to a mockery of seriousness; Brienne has trouble meeting his stupidly green eyes, “One of Vargo Hoat’s goonies is gonna come down that alley as soon as they figure out I’m here.”

“Vargo Hoat is chasing you?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m handsome.”

 _Ugh. Humble, too._ Brienne sort of wants to throttle him; it’s a _very_ unprofessional feeling.

“Be serious.”

“I saw something they didn’t want me to see.”

“What?”

He seems to ponder his response, “If you can keep them from filling me with bullet holes; I _might_ tell you.”

Brienne takes a few steps closer and holds out her hand, “Show me some identification.”

“Gotta move my hands for that,” his tone is sing-song, and he wiggles his fingers. 

Brienne nods sharply, and he reaches into his jean pocket and throws her his wallet. She opens it and finds the most unconvincing fake ID she’s _ever_ seen. A rookie three weeks into the police academy wouldn’t be fooled by it.

She looks from the ID then back up, “‘Larry Lions,’ _really?”_

“Not that one--the real one behind it.”

“Ballsy to admit a fake ID to a cop.”

“Well, the person who made that one did a shit job.”

The second card reads _Jaime Lannister._

* * *

The woman is a boulder. It’s a metaphor, not a simile. She’s _literally_ a giant rock. Jaime gets distracted from his rather dire predicament trying to take in her form in one sweeping gaze. Her name plate reads _Tarth_ but no first name. Vaguely, Jaime remembers that’s the name of some podunk island in the Narrow Sea. 

_Maybe the plan to get myself arrested isn’t such a longshot._ That, and Jaime’s never had the keenest sense of self-preservation. 

“Jaime Lannister,” Tarth reads aloud, “That sounds more fake than ‘Larry Lions.’”

He grins, “Yeah. Why?”

“Your father disowned you over a decade ago. It was all over the news when I was in middle school. Then, you vanished.” She’s looking at him with such judgment and scrutiny--an expression Jaime’s accustomed to. He can’t help but notice the arresting blue of her eyes.

“I sure as hell did,” Jaime crosses his arms; she hasn’t asked him to assume the position again. _She could make me, if she wanted._ Impulsively, Jaime wants to test her, see what force she might use.

“What did you see?”

Jaime shrugs, “Some negotiations over a _pretty_ large shipment of shade of the evening. I recall some obscenely large numbers, say...two million gold dragons.”

Tarth’s eyes widen, and Jaime wonders if she’s thinking of the glory catching a shipment like that would bring her career. Cops like things like that, for bragging rights.

Instead, she just says, _“Shit.”_

“I _could_ tell you more,” he shrugs, “but I _think_ we’re running low on time,”

“Fine,” she takes her radio off her belt, “I’m bringing you in.”

How shocking it is to be _happy_ to hear such a statement. 

* * *

Brienne doesn’t handcuff Jaime, but she’s less-than-gentle when she stuffs him in the back of the squad car. 

“There’s not a lot of room back here,” he says when the door is closed.

“It’s not a limo,” Brynden answers.

She silently agrees with both of them--the backseat isn’t meant for luxury, but anyone over six foot just isn’t comfortable back there. The last time Brienne sat in the back, she felt like an accordian.

Jaime talks the entire ride back to the station, nettling them about a seemingly endless variety of topics. Handcuffing him might not have been necessary, but Brienne wouldn’t say no if someone offered to gag him.

They don’t book him, but they do stick him in an interrogation room while they decide what to do with him.

“He has a fake ID,” Brienne thinks of the duffle bag Jaime divested himself of right as she caught up with him. Her body camera won't have caught it. She decides to keep it to herself for now. “We can probably get him on _something_ to use as leverage.”

Hyle Hunt, three desks over, scoffs, “Half the kids in this town under twenty-one have fake IDs.”

Hyle argues with everything she says and likes to use the fact that he’s a man to assert that he knows better than anyone else. _How did I ever date him? It was definitely desperation._

“We could just offer protection,” Jon says, “Get a statement of what he saw and take him to a safehouse for a few days.”

“You think we’ll catch Vargo Hoat in a few _days?”_ Hyle argues.

Brienne knows how mulish she is. “Not with that attitude we won’t.”

* * *

Jaime rests his chin on his hand and looks at the officer they sent into the interrogation room. Then, he reads the nameplate on the officer’s uniform. “Hunt, let me talk to Tarth.” 

“She’s a rookie,” Hunt tells him, “You can tell me what you saw.”

He doesn’t like this man, and the feeling is immediate and visceral. Jaime is reminded of the sycophantic people who try to get close to Tywin Lannister. 

“Tarth or no one.”

“We can release you back out on the streets, you know,” Hunt replies, “Your only worth to us is your information.”

Jaime shrugs, “You won’t get Hoat, then. I know where they’re meeting to exchange the next shipment of drugs.”

Hunt sighs, and Jaime knows he’s won.

Tarth enters the room a few moments later and sits down across from Jaime wearing a dour expression he assumes is immutable.

“I don’t care much for your colleague Hunt.”

She shudders, “He’s not exactly palatable, unfortunately.”

Jaime starts laughing, “Ah, you agree.”

Her gaze darts away, “That’s not why we’re here.”

“Is there some history there?” When Jaime digs in, he doesn’t let up. “Did you perhaps...date him?”

Her blush is instantaneous and violent; it creeps up her neck and over her freckles until even her ears are red. Tarth also looks a bit like she wants to slug him. Jaime finds that he wants to nettle her _almost_ more than he wants to avoid Vargo Hoat filling him with bullet holes. _Maybe there’s a way to do both._ Brienne, even though she’s a rookie, seems more competent than anyone else here.

“I’m not here to entertain your personal questions,” she snaps, “You’re here to answer mine.”

“Why don’t we go back and forth? I’ll go first.” Jaime decides not to wait for Brienne to agree. “Let’s be on a first name basis.”

“Fine, it’s Brienne.”

Jaime smirks, feeling quite smug, “See, _Brienne_ , was that so hard?”

He swears she goes a bit redder at the use of her given name. “My turn. What was in the duffle bag you ditched in the dumpster?”

* * *

“I’d say a half-million dragons,” Jaime shrugs like it’s nothing.

“You _stole_ it, didn’t you?”

“If you count taking money from someone who _definitely_ obtained it illegally as stealing.”

Brienne glares and says, “A crime committed against a criminal is _still_ a crime.”

Jaime leans halfway across the metal table until their faces are mere inches apart. Brienne hates the fact that she finds _everything_ about Jaime attractive--his cocky smirk, the line of his jaw under his beard, even the way his stupidly snug t-shirt spans his chest.

_Too close._

“But _you_ didn’t say anything to your partner, or lovely Hyle Hunt, or _any_ of your other colleagues. I’m certain you’re not protecting me.” Jaime smirks, “So, why? Is it glory?”

“...No.”

“You’re obviously a rookie. Wanna bring down Vargo Hoat and prove yourself?”

 _He caught me._ Her moment of hubris would be her downfall. Brienne can’t find a way to respond without giving that away, so she crosses her arms and leans back in the chair. “Share what you know, and they’ll take you into protective custody until we get Hoat.”

“And how long will _that_ be?”

“A few days, maybe, if you’re helpful.”

Jaime scoffs, “Or he fucks off to Essos, and you don’t catch him. He won’t forget what I took and heard. I’d rather meet my fate head-on.”

Brienne tries not to look taken aback. “Most men would be _begging_ for police custody right now.”

“I’m not most men.”

“...Clearly.”

“Instead, I’m begging for _your_ protection, Brienne.” He _must_ know his smile is seductive. “And, if you refuse, I’ll mention your _little_ omission of the duffle bag.”

_Well, fuck._

* * *

Brienne’s changed into civilian clothes, and they’re seated in the front seat of an unmarked car before she turns and glares at Jaime.

 _“Why_ did you insist on me? Any cop with a badge can keep you alive until dawn.”

Jaime gives her a smirk he knows will vex her, “I wanted to see your beautiful face for a few more hours.”

She turns the key in the ignition, “Fuck you.”

“We should _at least_ wait until we’re at the safe house,” Jaime quips, “We’re too tall for the car.”

“That was my chance to prove myself. I brought you in, and I could’ve gone with them to the drop point. They barely take me seriously as it is, and you _ruined_ that.”

“I didn’t.”

The stoplight turns red, and Brienne furrows her brows and gives Jaime a look that makes him feel six-inches tall. “How do you figure? I’ll be sitting with _you_ until dawn while they--”

“Hoat’s not an idiot; he _knows_ I heard. I thought you might prefer recovering a duffle bag of unmarked bills and checking out where the _last_ meet up was. There should be some prints, maybe a bullet casing or two you could get ballistics off of.”

Surprise flits across her features, and those big blue eyes of hers widen. Her incongruent features look less and less so everytime Jaime looks at her. “You’re...helping me?”

Jaime nods, “And myself. What if I misheard? Or Hoat changes the drop location? Or he pulls some other bullshit and walks? I’d rather _not_ end up a corpse eaten by fish in Blackwater Bay, probably with my hands chopped off first.”

“We’ll need strong evidence,” she turns her eyes back to the road, “to put him away.”

“You could always get him for tax evasion; that’d be fucking hilarious.”

Brienne _almost_ looks like she might smile.

* * *

Brienne is forced to acknowledge she _never_ would’ve found this place on her own. Jaime smirks the entire time she’s investigating like he’s waiting for praise. 

She maintains her silence. 

Jaime was right though--she fills an evidence bag with three empty bullet casings and gets half a set of prints off the door handle of the room Jaime says he hid in. 

“Why are most crimimals so dumb? Wearing gloves solves _so_ many issues.”

“I take it you know that from experience?”

“I’ve never been arrested.”

_Smug bastard._

“Until today.”

“Does that count? It was a rescue of sorts.”

Their second stop is retrieving the duffle bag. 

Brienne, unconcerned about what might be inside, vaults into the dumpster and retrieves it. Blessedly, it’s mostly empty despite the smell. When she climbs out, Jaime is staring at her quite oddly.

“What?”

He shakes his head, “You just...vaulted over the side of that at a sprint.”

She means to ask him what that _look_ means, but a gunshot rings out in the alley. Then, there’s a second, and Brienne feels a bright stab of pain as a bullet grazes her arm.

“Jaime!” Brienne calls his name, and on instinct, dives in front of him as the third shot hits her in the chest.

* * *

Watching Brienne take a bullet is _much_ worse than running from one fired at him.

The entire thing happens in slow motion--Brienne hits the pavement, and Jaime expects to see blood, but there isn’t any. _A vest, of course._ Only her arm is bleeding, and she reaches for her radio and calls for backup.

Brienne looks like she has half a mind to chase after the guy, but Jaime grabs her arm and shakes his head. “Not alone.”

The backup arrives, even though Hoat’s lackey is certainly long gone. Jaime supposes the bullet lodged in Brienne’s vest will be useful if it matches the ones they found earlier. Hunt says something mocking, and Jaime wants to slug him. _Hilarious if my first legitimate arrest was for assaulting a cop._ Brienne insists on continuing her guard duty, and drags Jaime back to the car.

The safehouse isn’t technically a house--it’s a nondescript apartment.

Brienne collapses on the generic-looking navy couch; her arm is still bleeding through the torn sleeve of her jacket. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back.

“There should be a first aid kit under the bathroom sink.”

Jaime retrieves and realizes his hands are shaking when he sits next to Brienne. He fumbles with the latch on the case and feels overwhelmed by the choices in the contents. _Gauze,_ he tells himself, _and disinfectant. Gods, does she need stitches?_

Meanwhile, Brienne takes off her hoodie and vest leaving her in only a tank top. She casts both aside and reaches for the first aid kit.

Still stumbling, Jaime drops an alcohol wipe, and Brienne picks it up and tears it open, wiping at the blood coating her arm.

“Jaime.”

His name makes him focus--he meets her gaze only to find concern reflected there. _We’ve known each other for an afternoon, and she took a bullet for me._

“S-sorry, let me.”

A second alcohol wipe clears off most of the blood, “It bled a lot, but it’s just a graze; I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

Brienne winces when Jaime slides the wipe over the gash. “Good.”

“You--” Jaime starts, not knowing how to tell her that no one has _ever_ risked themselves for him. How his heart stopped in his chest when the bullet hit her, and how terrified he’d been at the prospect of the death of someone he only just met.

_That her death would be on my hands._

None of those are things he’s ever said aloud to _anyone._ He presses a gauze pad to the wound and wraps it with a bandage instead of speaking. 

“Let’s call a truce,” Jaime finally says.

Brienne looks at him, surprised, “A truce means there’s trust; I can’t tell when you’re lying.”

“You’ll get nothing but the truth from me from now on. Scout’s honor.”

“The money--what were you going to do with it?”

“Run away and start again.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” Jaime admits, “I grabbed it on impulse. As far as I could go, I suppose.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve fucked up _everything_ I’ve tried to do.”

There’s scrutiny in Brienne’s gaze, but Jaime doesn’t quite feel like she’s judging him. He looks back at her, away from her eyes and down to her broad, freckled shoulders and muscular arms. There’s a bruise blossoming her chest, half-concealed by the tanktop.

Jaime raises his hand to touch it, but thinks better of it halfway there. _What would she do?_

“Do you think there’s any food here?” he asks instead.

* * *

There’s a random assemblage of food in the cabinets. She finds pasta and sauce and leaves Jaime to cook it. She retreats to the bathroom to wash the blood off her hands and change into some standard-issue King’s Landing Police Department sweats. They’re definitely men’s, and they’re nearly too small.

“I’ll finish,” she tells Jaime, throwing a second set of the sweats onto the couch, “There’s a shower, too.”

Even through a bulletproof vest, getting shot isn’t comfortable. Brienne pokes at the bruise through her sweatshirt and winces. A few inches higher and she’d be dead.

The food is wholly mediocre, but Brienne hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Jaime seems to be much the same, judging by the fact that he eats two bowls of pasta. She turns on the television to mask the fact that she’s terrible at smalltalk at the best of times, and this definitely doesn’t qualify. _What would I even say to him?_

They watch half an episode of some Dornish dating show in complete silence. 

Brienne glances at Jaime a couple times. The sweats fit him better than they do her, and his damp golden hair curls around his temples. Jaime looks _soft,_ and vulnerable, and it gives her a whole host of feelings that are _quite_ the opposite of finding him infuriating.

The next time she looks, Jaime is looking _at_ her, lit by the glow of the TV. Part of her wants to look away, but she took a bullet for him, and that’s the thought that stays her course.

“I didn’t know you had a vest on,” he whispers.

“I’m a cop. We usually wear them.”

“You weren’t in uniform anymore, and you jumped in front of me, and I thought--”

“Even without the vest, I’d have done the same.”

Jaime shakes his head, _“Why?”_

“I’d be a shitty cop if I wasn’t willing to die protecting a civilian.”

“You’d die for a worthless stranger?” The tone in Jaime’s voice is new--he sounds a little broken; Brienne doesn’t know what to make of it.

“You’re not worthless.”

“You’ve known me for less than twelve hours. My own _family_ wouldn’t jump between a bullet and me.”

“That doesn’t matter; you’re a person,” she replies, “Everyone has value.”

 _Even if others don’t see it; even if you don’t see it._ Brienne spent a long, long time letting others’ appraisals determine her worth.

Of all of Jaime’s possible responses, a kiss is the farthest from what Brienne expects. She’s so shocked that it takes her several heartbeats to slam her eyes shut. Jaime angles his body into hers on the couch and cups her jaw with his hand. Brienne doesn’t have a terribly large amount of experience kissing, but she knows what to do when Jaime tilts his head and runs his tongue against her lips.

It’s a bit like a switch is flipped between them--there’s a current Brienne can’t put a name to, only that it’s overpowering and maybe a bit irrational. Jaime puts a hand on Brienne’s shoulder and guides her back against the arm of the couch. She slides her hand to Jaime’s back and tugs him until he’s half atop her. There’s _something_ about the gesture he likes because when they’re flush together Jaime lets out a strangled moan into the kiss.

Then, Jaime breaks away from her, tucks the hair that’s escaped from her bun behind her ears, and rests his forehead against hers. Brienne feels flushed from the kiss, but Jaime keeps touching her hair, and that intimacy makes her feel like her ears are on fire, especially when Jaime traces a fingertip over the shell of one.

“W-what are you doing?”

“I think that’s rather obvious.” Her eyes are still closed, but Brienne hears the amusement dancing through Jaime’s voice. “Kissing. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

“I know what kissing is.” She means to sound cross, but it just comes out breathless. “I’m asking _why.”_

“Because I’ve been looking at you for half a day.”

Brienne opens her eyes and furrows her brow, “That’s...I’m ugly. You thought I was a man.”

Jaime shakes his head and kisses her again, “I’m a fool. Ignore me.”

“...That’s not so easy when you’re--” _Half on top of me on a couch in a safe house._ Brienne can’t get any of _those_ words out, so she lets the sentence hang.

“Your eyes are beautiful.”

“The only thing, then.”

He trails a finger down the bridge of her nose, over the bump where she’d broken it as a girl, “I like looking at you more as the day wears on.”

“O-okay.”

“If that bullet hit you six inches higher you wouldn’t be here right now.” 

Stubbornly, Brienne replies, “That’s something I accept.”

“Were you confident that it’d hit the vest?”

“Reasonably so.”

Jaime shakes his head, clearly confused, but there’s no ambiguity in the decision for Brienne. She knew, from the day she entered the police academy, that she might die so a stranger could live. Tentatively, she reaches up and touches his cheek, beard tickling her palm. Jaime leans in like no one’s touched him like that in a long, long time, and maybe it’s true. _He’s so, so handsome._ It’s hard to breath when Jaime’s so close, and Brienne barely knows him at all. 

_How would it feel to know him better?_

“Brienne, there’s condoms in your first aid kit.”

“R-really?”

He chuckles, “Is that standard issue?”

Brienne reddens, “I don’t honestly know.”

“We could put them to use, if you’re willing.”

“Y-you want to...with _me?”_

“With you,” Jaime echoes, “Nothing but the truth, right?”

She shakes her head, “I’m on duty.”

“Do I look like a man who would tattle?”

_No._

Jaime’s expression is feigned innocence. There’s three bolts on the door, and Hoat won’t be able to find them. She looks at her gun in its holster on the coffee table. _Close enough if it’s needed._ It’s wholly unlike her, but Brienne’s the one who closes the distance between them.

* * *

Brienne kisses him, but she’s nervous. It permeates every gesture, from the hand cupping his cheek, to the way her lips move against his, to the hand resting on his back. She kisses him like she’s afraid of being rebuked, slow movements where Jaime thinks she expects him to back away and change his mind.

He won’t, but Brienne doesn’t know that yet.

 _What history led her to be like this?_ She’s utterly calm and decisive at her job--Jaime watched her make decisions and risk herself all day. He thought she’d be like that here, that she would use the same calculated force as when she shoved him into the police car. He’s interested in that, in her measured application of pressure. It might feel like protection.

When Jaime scrapes his teeth over the soft skin of her neck where her pulse races, Brienne anchors her fingers in his hair and tugs. It’s not intentional, but it feels good _._ Her sigh is breathy and low; Jaime wonders how she’ll sound by the end of this. He slides his hand under the boring gray sweatshirt Brienne donned and moves upward. The thing is stretched a bit across her broad shoulders and isn’t doing her any favors.

_Does she have freckles here, too?_

His hand meets no resistance as he slides it up the smooth, hidden skin under the fabric. Jaime raises an eyebrow, and Brienne blushes.

“It’s in the wash, just like your things.”

“And if I go down instead of up?”

Even redder, Brienne snaps, “I’m _not_ telling you that.”

“Y’know,” Jaime gives a lazy shrug, “I can find out for myself.”

Brienne takes a deep, shuddering breath. Jaime moves his hand forward and finds her nipple. A swipe of his thumb, and her head falls back against the arm of the couch. He pushes the sweatshirt up enough to bare her skin.

 _Freckles._ Even Brienne’s breasts are covered in them. For some reason, that has Jaime grinning. He lavishes them with attention, uses his hands and his mouth until Brienne arches off the cushion and holds his head to keep him sucking on her nipples.

 _There’s the force._ Jaime nuzzles against the skin between her breasts. _I just have to work her up enough._ Brienne surprises him by sitting up and pulling the sweatshirt off. Her cheeks are blotchy and the skin around her breasts is reddened from Jaime’s ministrations. She scowls like she’s daring Jaime to back down now that she’s exposed, now that he can see what she offers him, and tosses the shirt onto the coffee table.

Jaime’s on his knees before Brienne on the couch, one knee between her spread thighs. The awful sweatpants do _nothing_ to hide his own burgeoning erection, and the fabric isn’t creating any desirable friction to ease his suffering. There’s only Brienne, whose eyes flicker down and then back up to meet his. She chews her full bottom lip between her teeth, and Jaime longs to kiss her again.

“No lies, right?” Jaime pushes the sweatpants down his thighs and strokes himself once.

“For _me?”_

The skepticism in Brienne’s voice rankles him; all Jaime can think about is how mindblowingly wonderful it’s going to be to have those strong legs of Brienne’s wrapped around him, holding them together while he--

“I want everything I’ve seen,” he tells her, breathless, “and I want to see what I haven’t.”

When Brienne touches his cock, it’s with a gentle hand--a full realization of the dichotomy within her. She reaches under his sweatshirt with her other hand, trails it up the planes of his chest. Her strength, her steadiness, is going to be the end of him. 

Now that his hands are free, Jaime strips his top half and falls into Brienne. The first aid kit is on the coffee table; Brienne takes the initiative and reaches for it, fingertips landing on the edge. It clatters onto the tile in her haste, but she produces the foil packet between her fingers.

Jaime laughs, “Victory.”

“Probably the highlight of the day,” she answers dryly.

Jaime wants to say _the best is yet to come,_ but he’s honestly not that confident in his skills. He’s not like his brother, who goes home with any beautiful woman who will have him. Jaime waits to feel a sense of certainty about it--and when he knows, he just _knows._

He reaches between her thighs and runs his thumb over her cunt through the sweatpants. After a few passes, her wetness starts to seep through the fabric. She shuts her eyes again, which is a crime greater than any Jaime’s committed because he very much wants to look at them endlessly.

She moans, low but louder than before, when he finds her clit through the fabric. Brienne arches again, trying to give Jaime better access, but he knows it won’t be enough. When he stops touching her, Brienne opens her eyes; they look like the summer sky. Jaime tugs the pants down her hips and discards them.

“I’m ready,” she passes him the condom.

“Thank the Seven.”

Brienne rolls her eyes, but she keeps them open when Jaime pushes his cock into her. The little gulp of air Brienne intakes is going to be burned into Jaime’s mind until the end of time. She watches him with the same composure she’s had the entire day, which is quite ironic because now that Jaime is where he wants to be, he panics. _She’s too good._ He’s known her for less than twelve hours, but he already knows that. It’s wrong, maybe, to want her so quickly and with such a fervor. 

“Hey,” she’s touching his cheek again, “You okay?”

The gesture is simple and profound all at once. Mostly, it steadies him.

“Yeah.” Jaime turns his head and kisses her palm; it’s a bit calloused, probably from work. “About to get even better.”

It doesn’t _really_ get better until the third thrust or so, when Brienne unknowingly grants Jaime his fantasy and wraps her legs around him. They’re as strong as he imagined, and when she holds him close and kisses him, Jaime thinks that if he died, right then, he would be a happy man. Brienne probably wouldn’t be--it would be quite traumatiizing for someone she was fucking to die on top of her.

Jaime’s mind _always_ goes to stupid places during sex.

The rhythm is easy to find, and Brienne moves with him, guiding him with her hips. Her cunt is tight around his cock, her thighs are tight around his hips, and she’s holding his head still so she can press shy kisses against his lips. She’s gentle and measured, but the pressure Jaime longed for, the intoxicating certainty of being kept by Brienne, drives him to the brink. There are only two condoms, and while Jaime is happy for an encore, he slows his pace to deep thrusts that break Brienne’s composure and make her cry out.

His orgasm leaves him boneless, and while Jaime would usually think it’s bad form to collapse on a woman, Brienne barely acknowledges the dead weight of him. She pets his hair and rests her broad palm on his back.

“Am I heavy?”

Brienne laughs, “My gear weighs more than you.”

 _Maybe_ Jaime should be offended or emasculated, but he’s never heard Brienne laugh, and the sound is rich and warm. Still, he feels compelled to protest a _little,_ even if it’s undermined by the fact his head is nestled against her shoulder. 

“I’ll have you know, I’m over six feet tall.”

“Me too.”

“Hey.” Jaime moves to look down at Brienne. His cock may be out of commission for a while, but it’s not his only asset when it comes to pleasuring a woman. “Let me eat your cunt.”

Brienne’s blush is the most dramatic one yet; she covers her face with one hand and peers at Jaime through the cracks between her fingers. “D-do you _have_ to say it like that?”

“I call it what it is, or would something more romantic suit the lady better?”

_“No.”_

Jaime smirks, “No to which?”

“To calling it something else.” She takes a deep breath, “...No one’s done it well.”

“You’re in for a treat, then.”

* * *

Jaime’s going to be _insufferable_ from the moment he puts his mouth on her cunt. She hasn’t known him long, but she's confident about his smugness. Brienne slams her hand over her mouth to stop from making a sound that will _definitely_ make the safe house unusable. 

_“Quite_ the reaction,” Jaime murmurs against her thigh, kissing the skin there. He’s kneeling before her, keeping her legs spread wide with a hand on her knee. Hyle did this, once, in the dark, and Brienne _never_ asked for it again. This is the _utter_ opposite--Jaime is _looking_ at her. He moves his mouth to the other side and doesn’t go back to where she wants. 

_Damned tease._

“I’ll kick you out of here,” she practically hisses.

“My knight would _never,”_ he taunts, “You’re too noble.”

He’s right; she would _never,_ but she might crush him with her thighs and cite it as an accident. It might actually _be_ an accident because when Jaime returns to her, he flicks his tongue against her clit with such startling accuracy that his hands are the only thing keeping her thighs apart. 

_It’s just like me,_ she thinks, _to run from the reaction._ Jaime thinks her brave, but he doesn’t know this side of her, the part that fears good things because they can be used to hurt her.

“I _like_ doing this,” Jaime murmurs between passes. He takes a hand off her thigh and slides two fingers into her. She’s so wet she half thinks it will leave a puddle on the awful couch. Jaime glances up and makes eye contact with her. “I like the view, too.”

It’s earnest, and sweet, and that’s what Brienne’s thinking when her orgasm hits her so hard it’s like being suckerpunched. When she opens her eyes, Jaime’s resting his temple against her knee, looking up at her like he’s expecting a compliment.

 _“Fine._ It was...quite good.” 

Jaime is laughing, so if she sounds begrudging, he must not mind.

* * *

It’s almost one in the morning when Brienne’s radio tells her they apprehended Hoat and his men at the location Jaime provided. 

“Are you and the witness safe?” Jaime recognizes Hunt’s voice over the static.

Because Jaime is an asshole and is pretty unashamed about it, he kisses Brienne’s freckled cheek and works his way to her neck. She blushes and tries to bat him away.

“We--we’re--the witness is safe,” she says in a rush, “I’ve been keeping a close eye on him.”

Jaime starts laughing as silently as he can manage, and Brienne slaps her hand over his mouth.

“He seems like a pain in the ass,” Hunt says, “I don’t envy you. Stay put until we get the all-clear.”

“We will.”

The radio goes silent, and Jaime stops being so. Within seconds, he’s cackling into Brienne’s shoulder. They’re dressed, but they haven’t left the couch. Jaime has arranged himself so he’s pressed against the back, head resting on Brienne’s shoulder. The couch is too narrow and too short, and Jaime doesn’t give a single shit.

“Did you fuck Hunt?”

“...Unfortunately.”

Jaime raises his eyebrows, “He sounds like an ass. Was he bad? I bet he was. I bet I’m better.”

“...I’m not answering that.”

He makes a smug huff, “I don’t think you need to.” Jaime knows men like Hyle Hunt--he thinks pleasing a woman means sticking his cock in her and mindlessly thrusting.

“I’ve behaved...quite unprofessionally this evening, and Hyle gets the glory for catching Hoat.”

“But _you_ found me, which made them find Hoat.” Jaime answers. “Did I make the babysitting worth your while?” 

“...Yes.” The word is _almost_ a whisper. 

Jaime imagines a future of nettling her, and pleasing her, and gets utterly ahead of himself in the fantasy. There’s still the _little_ issue of the fact that he took the money, and the years of _other_ petty crimes that may or may not be able to be traced to him.

“Brienne, what will you say about the duffle bag?”

He expects her judgment; Brienne is lawful and principled and everything Jaime isn’t.

She’s silent for a moment, “Admit that you got scared and disposed of it. My bodycam didn’t catch you throwing it in the dumpster. You took me back to it and explained yourself. You didn’t have any chance to spend it, and the department owes you for tipping them off.”

“That’s...it?”

_What about my entire life?_

“I don’t think they’ll push for charges after that,” she says. “And I don’t know all you’ve done, but you can always start again.”

“That’s more faith than anyone has shown me...in a long, long time.” _Ever._ Jaime’s not quite ready to say that. “Can I take you out? Does that violate some department policy?"

 _“Now_ you’re concerned about department policy?”

“No, but you seem like you would be.” Maybe Brienne could rub off on him a bit--that might be a good thing.

“And yes, you can, but _this_ violated a half-dozen policies.”

“Got it. Don’t fuck the informants.” Jaime leans forward and kisses her, just to keep up his defiance. Brienne doesn’t push him away. “You know, you should be glad Hoat didn’t get me.”

“I am, but why do I get the feeling--”

“They call him the Crippler. Or, shady people do at least.” He raises a hand and waggles his fingers. “You liked these; gotta earn my keep.”

“It’d be okay.” Brienne’s blush is as delightful as the first time; her mouth curls in the smallest hint of a smile. “We’ve found hands and feet, but never a tongue.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! And you can always find me on tumblr @kurikaesu-haru


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